CHAPTER XX
MILLIE LEAVES HOME
BINDLE'S visits to "the pictures" with Millie had become a weekly institution. Mr. Hearty had made several tentative attempts to interfere. He had mentioned more than once the evil influence of the cinema, and had called attention to paragraphs in the newspapers and the remarks of magistrates in support of his view. Bindle had, however, been firm, inspired by the fear and appeal he saw in Millie's eyes.
"Look 'ere, 'Earty," he would say, "I'm an ole warrior. You an' my Little Rosebud at 'ome 'ave 'elped me, an' there ain't a known sin that I can't dodge. Millie's all right wi' me. When they kiss I 'olds me 'at over 'er eyes."
Millie would blush, and Mr. Hearty, who was never equal to Bindle's persistent good-humour and racy speech, would allow the matter to drop.
A great change had come over Millie. She was gayer and brighter, her laugh was more frequently heard, and she seemed to be developing opinions of her own. In her dress she was more extravagant, although always neat and refined.
Mr. Hearty became conscious of the change. His eyes were often upon his daughter, and his slow-moving brain at work seeking for some explanation of this new phenomenon.
Had he been told of the happiness that had come into her life, he would have been unable to understand it working so great a change. He would also have disapproved, for to his narrow faith any happiness that sprang from association of the opposite sexes, however innocent, was the happiness of sin.
In a passive way Mrs. Hearty also had noticed the change. She had even gone to the length of remarking upon it to Bindle.
"She's growin' into a woman, Martha," had been Bindle's diagnosis; "an' an uncommon pretty woman, too. I s'pose she gets it from 'Earty," he added, whereat Mrs. Hearty had subsided into waves of mirth.
At first Bindle had been in some doubt as to the wisdom of his action in encouraging the romance between the young lovers; but as it progressed and he saw their devotion and Millie's happiness, all scruples vanished.
"I may be a silly ole fool," he muttered to himself one night as he left the radiant Milly at her door, "but I'm 'elpin' them two kids to be 'appy, an' after all, 'appiness is the thing wot matters. If yer can get it through lookin' into a gal's eyes, it's better'n gettin' it through lookin' into a beer-glass. I'd sooner be 'appy than drunk any day."
Unconsciously Bindle had stumbled upon a great truth.
At first Millie's "evenin' out," as Bindle called it, was spent at a local cinema, Bindle conveniently disappearing until ten o'clock, when he would take Millie home. Later, however, walks and rides on omnibuses took the place of "the pictures" in the evening's entertainment.
Several times Millie and Charlie Dixon begged Bindle to accompany them, but he had always resolutely refused.
"Look 'ere, young feller, yer wouldn't 'ave a look in wi' Millie if I was there. Ain't that so, Millikins?" And Millie would hang on to Bindle's arm with both hands and give a little jump of joy.
One evening when Bindle arrived at the cinema at a few minutes to ten, he saw Charlie Dixon there alone, obviously in a state of great excitement.
"'Ullo, Charlie!" said Bindle, "wot's up? Where's Millikins?" There was alarm in Bindle's voice.
"We met Mr. Hearty in Putney High Street and he's taken her home. I don't know what to do. I'm"
Bindle whistled. "'Oly Angels, 'ere's a go," he exclaimed. "'Ere, come along, young feller, we mustn't stop a-jawin' 'ere." Hurriedly they left the cinema together.
"'Ow long ago was this?" enquired Bindle, as they hurried along in the direction of Fulham High Street.
"About ten minutes. What shall we do?" Charlie Dixon's voice shook with anxiety.
"Well," said Bindle, "yer'd better go 'ome. I'm goin' to 'ave it out with 'Earty." There was a grim note in Bindle's voice. "I ain't a-goin' to leave our little Millikins to 'im."
Charlie Dixon felt that at that moment he could have hugged Bindle. All he could do was to grip his arm. His voice had deserted him.
"'E learnt that from Millikins," murmured Bindle to himself as they sped along. Outside the Grand Theatre they parted, Charlie Dixon vowing that he would wait there until Bindle came to him.
"There's goin' to be an 'ell of a row," muttered Bindle, as he rang the Heartys' bell.
He was admitted by a tearful Mrs. Hearty.
"Oh, Joe, I'm so glad," she wheezed. "Go up; I'll"
Bindle raced up the stairs to the Heartys' sitting-room. As he opened the door Mr. Hearty was standing by the mantelpiece, his face white and set and his lips slightly drawn from his discoloured teeth. Facing him stood Millie, with flushed face and rebellious eyes. At the sight of Bindle she uttered a cry and ran to him, threw her arms round his neck, choking with sobs.
Bindle soothed her as if she had been a child.
"Oh, don't leave me, Uncle Joe, promise, promise!" She looked at Bindle with fear in her eyes. "Promise, darling Uncle Joe."
"I won't leave the little Millikins," said Bindle reassuringly. "I won't leave yer until yer say I can go, see?"
Disengaging Millie's arms from his neck, Bindle placed her gently on the sofa, and Mrs. Hearty, who had just entered the room breathing laboriously, sat down beside the half-fainting girl, looking at her helplessly.
"Don't cry, Millie dear," Mrs. Hearty wheezed, although there were no signs of tears, as she stroked one of Millie's hands.
All this time Mr. Hearty had been looking on in a dazed way, conscious that the control of the situation was slipping from his grasp. He was roused by Bindle's voice.
"Now then, 'Earty, wot the 'ell do yer mean by this?"
It was a new Bindle that Mr. Hearty saw before him. The humorous twist had gone from his mouth, the light of fun was no longer in his eyes. Mr. Hearty saw a stern, resolute man who was demanding of him an explanation.
During the last quarter of an hour he had pictured a scene vastly different from this. He was to be the outraged father indignantly demanding an explanation from a crestfallen and humbled Bindle. Through his mind there had passed the thought that the enemy had been delivered into his hands. He had felt like a righteous and triumphant Israel; and now everything had turned out so differently.
"Ain't you got nothink to say?" Mr. Hearty was awakened from his meditation by Bindle's angry enquiry. Even Mrs. Hearty looked up, mildly surprised at the unaccustomed note in Bindle's voice.
"I have a lot to say," replied Mr. Hearty with an obvious effort, "and I want an explanation from you, Joseph." Instinctively Mr. Hearty felt that his tone was too mild for that of the outraged father, and he added in what he meant to be a stern voice, "and I—I demand an explanation before you leave this house to-night."
"There ain't no fear o' my leavin' before yer want me to," replied Bindle grimly. "Don't you worry yer saintly soul about that, 'Earty. Now, what is it yer want to know?"
Mr. Hearty stroked his chin. "I—I" How he disliked scenes! "I—I want to know why Millie was alone with a strange young man in Putney High Street this evening, when she was supposed to be with you?"
Mr. Hearty strove to be dignified and at the same time appropriately stern and uncompromising; but always with a dash of Christian forbearance.
"That all?" enquired Bindle contemptuously. "That won't take long. She was there 'cause she wants to be 'appy, wot she's got a right to be. If yer was a man, 'Earty, instead of an 'oly greengrocer, yer'd understan' wi'out tellin'. If yer was to listen to the 'ymnns o' the birds instead o' them 'ungry-lookin' young women in the choir" (Mr. Hearty flushed) "yer'd know why Millie was wi' Charlie Dixon to-night.
"She wants love, 'Earty, an' she don't get it at 'ome. She wants 'appiness, an' you never even smile at 'er—not as that 'ud 'elp 'er much," he added, with a flash of the old Bindle. "Yer want to shove Gawd down 'er throat all the time, and it ain't the real Gawd 'oo was kind to children."
"She's my daughter and must obey me." There was determination in Mr. Hearty's voice. He felt he must assert his parental authority.
"Now, listen," said Bindle; and he proceeded to tell the whole story of Millie's romance and the part he had played in it. "Now, 'ave yer any think to complain about?" he enquired in conclusion.
"I forbid her ever to see him again," almost shouted Mr. Hearty. The story he had just listened to had roused him to anger. It had outraged his sense of the proprieties that his daughter should be walking the streets alone with a young man she had met casually in a train! That his own brother-in-law should be a party to such a disgraceful and sordid intrigue made matters worse. Being a religious man Mr. Hearty thought the worst.
He looked at Bindle, There was no suggestion of shame or contrition in his bearing.
"I will have no such goings-on in my family," fumed Mr. Hearty, "and in future I'll thank you, Joseph, not to interfere." Mr. Hearty's face was very set and hard. "What would Mr. Sopley say if he knew?"
"That," remarked Bindle calmly, "would depend on 'ow long ago it was since 'is mind was cleaned."
"Anyhow, I won't have it." And Mr. Hearty drew himself up to his full height.
"Wot jer goin' to do then?" enquired Bindle with ominous calm.
Mr. Hearty was nonplussed. What was he going to do? What could he do? To gain time he asked a question.
"Does Elizabeth know about this?" he demanded.
"Not 'er," replied Bindle contemptuously. "She'd like to stop the birds a-matin', if she could." Suddenly he grinned. "An' there wouldn't be no lamb to go wi' your mint, 'Earty, if she 'ad 'er way."
"I won't have it," fumed Mr. Hearty again. "I've been very patient, but—but—I won't have it."
"Yer can't stop a runaway 'orse with a notice-board," remarked Bindle with unconscious philosophy.
"I'll thank you not to interfere in my affairs, Joseph. As I say, I've been very patient and, and" Mr. Hearty, whose face was deathly white, broke off. "If," he continued, "if this—er—fellow has ruined Millie, it's your fault."
Bindle made a movement towards his brother-in-law; his hand was raised and there was murder smouldering in his eyes, when something seemed to rush between them. Both men fell back a step and Mr. Hearty found himself looking into a pair of blazing eyes that he failed to recognise as those of his daughter.
"How dare you, father!" she panted, her young breast heaving, her face flaming, and her eyes burning with suppressed fury. Bindle regarded her with amazement and awe.
"How dare you say that of Charlie and me? I hope God will punish you for it. You have always made me unhappy. You have never allowed me the pleasures other girls have. If it hadn't been for mother I should have run away long ago. It is fathers like you that make girls bad. I won't have you blame Uncle Joe. I—I wish he was my father."
Mr. Hearty watched her as if fascinated. Her tempest of passion had overwhelmed him. Bindle looked from Hearty to Mrs. Hearty, who was sitting crying softly and comfortably to herself.
Millie looked round her in a dazed way, then produced from somewhere a handkerchief, with which she proceeded to wipe her eyes. With great deliberation she walked over to where her hat and jacket lay upon a chair and proceeded to put them on.
"Millie, I forbid you to go out." Mr. Hearty was making a last despairing effort.
Millie flashed a look of scorn at him.
"I am going away," she said quietly; "and I will never speak to you again until you take back those words."
Bindle looked from father to daughter. He felt helpless, as if he were the onlooker at some impending tragedy which he was powerless to avert.
"You are not of age, Millie, and you must obey your father. "There was a more persuasive note in Mr. Hearty's voice.
"I am going away, father," said Millie in the same colourless voice; "and if you try and prevent me" She did not finish.
"Good-night, mother." Millie went over to her mother and kissed her tenderly. Mrs. Hearty continued to cry. She looked appealingly at Bindle, who nodded reassuringly.
"Look 'ere, 'Earty," whispered Bindle, "you're up agin' somethin' yer don't understand, I don't rightly understand it meself. Better let me take Millie 'ome to Lizzie, she'll look after 'er all right."
For a moment Mr. Hearty hesitated; then with a glance at Millie's resolute face, he said:
"Millie, your uncle will take you to your Aunt Elizabeth."
"That is where I was going, father," she replied quietly, and Mr. Hearty felt that he had been badly beaten, and by his own daughter, who, until this evening, he had always regarded as a child.
Millie leant heavily on Bindle's arm as they walked down the High Street. She did not notice that they were going in the opposite direction from the Bindles' house. Suddenly her eyes grew wide with wonder; coming towards them was Charlie Dixon, whose half-hour had been spent in torture.
"Millie!"
She smiled up into his face wearily.
"Now, young feller," said Bindle with forced cheerfulness, "don't arst questions. Millie's comin' 'ome wi' me. It'll be all right, but," and he whispered to Charlie Dixon, "it's been" Bindle completed his sentence with a look. "Now then, Millikins, say good-night to Charlie an' we'll be off."
Like a tired child she lifted her face to be kissed, a flicker of a smile playing round her moist lips.
"Good-night, Charlie," she whispered. "I'm so tired."
"I shall always be grateful, Mr. Bindle," said Charlie Dixon, grasping Bindle's hand.
"Leggo, you young fool," yelled Bindle. Charlie Dixon dropped his hand as if it had been electrified. "Next time you're grateful," remarked Bindle, as he ruefully examined his hand, "you put it down on paper; it won't 'urt so much."
And they parted.
"That you, Bindle?" Bindle recognised the familiar tones as he groped along the passage of his house with Millie.
Mrs. Bindle looked up from the supper table as they entered the kitchen.
"I brought Millie 'ome, Lizzie," said Bindle simply. "There's been trouble. 'Earty's gone mad. I'll tell yer all about it later."
One look told Mrs. Bindle everything she wanted to know. All the baulked motherhood in her nature rose up as she took the girl in her arms, and led her upstairs.
Bindle sat down to his supper. Several times Mrs. Bindle entered the room to fetch various things, but no word passed between them. Bindle had been taken by surprise. He would have been even more surprised had he seen the expression on Mrs. Bindle's face as she coaxed and crooned over the girl lying on the bed upstairs.
When she finally returned to the kitchen, Bindle, his supper finished, had made up his mind to a great sacrifice. For a few seconds they stood regarding each other. It was Bindle who broke the silence.
"Lizzie," he said awkwardly, "I'll go to chapel on Sunday if you like."
And then for no reason at all Mrs. Bindle sat down at the table, buried her face in her arms and sobbed convulsively.
"I wonder wot I done now," muttered Bindle, as he regarded Mrs. Bindle's heaving shoulders with a puzzled expression on his face. "Funny things, women."